by Alan, TS
There was Steve “Pepe” Zwaryczuk, the day manager and the ale pourer. Don’t call it beer, because Pepe would swiftly correct you with, “We don’t serve beer; we serve ale, light or dark.” Pepe lived in Chelsea on 19th Street and I often saw him outside his work environment. Richie Welsh, Michael Brannigan, Shane Buggy, and Pete—I could never remember his last name—were the waiters I had a good rapport with. I mostly saw Pete and Richie when I visited, for they worked days, and the three of us always had a good chat. The last time I had seen Michael was on a Tuesday about two thirty in the afternoon at the Stage Restaurant. Michael worked the evening shift and I rarely visited McSorley’s during that time. Regulars tended to stay away at night because of the college kids. So when I saw him at the pub, he was usually filling in for someone on the day shift, or at Stage having breakfast, which for me was lunchtime. On that particular day we were sitting around discussing our apartments and how long we lived in them. Michael had been in his for over seventeen years, a lot longer than I had mine. As for Shane, the last time I had spoken with him we got in a conversation about the long lost White Horse Distillery, which once operated in County Laois, Ireland, where he was from.
I recalled one of the last memorable times I had been at McSorley’s. It was for their last birthday celebration. I sat across the room with Dennis, Mary, and their two friends Maggie and Naomi. The place was festive. Multi-colored helium balloons floated against the ceiling and banners touted the day. Pepe was behind the bar as always, barely noticing my arrival. The place had already become crowded with regulars, who they let in early. At two o’clock the Colonial Heritage Society did their traditional exhibition of musket firing. By two thirty I was buzzed. At three thirty the celebratory cake was served. At four, I left and took a cab home.
My mind wandered to food. I remembered the lunch I had at the birthday celebration. Irish ham, mashed potatoes, and shredded cooked carrots with a touch of cabbage. McSorley’s could make a good burger, and a great lamb sandwich. I loved Marry’s cooking the best. Marry, like Chester, knew how I liked my burger and that my steak fries came with a side of gravy. Marry Moylan was a big and beautiful person that loved to talk. Her sparkling personality and loving nature reminded me of my mother. Although my mother, a true Irish woman in many ways, down to her stubbornness, couldn’t boil water to save her life.
I usually sat in the back corner, in front of the kitchen entrance next to the fireplace, where a photo of Max, Pepe, and I hung. I always sat at that particular table so Marry and I could spend time chatting. Even if the table was occupied upon my arrival—it could hold five—Richie or Pete would always make room for me. Marry was the sweetest woman I ever knew, with the exception of my grandmother. Marry, like my grandmother, had a gentle soul, a bubbly personality, and always a kind word to say. Though I would hear Marry telling Pete to bugger off once in a while when he irritated her, which was often, I never knew her to get angry.
I missed my grandmother and I missed Marry.
Then there was Matthew Maher, the owner—Matty, as his friends called him. He was a jovial, generous Irishman with a kind heart and a good soul. Whenever he saw me in the bar, he would come over to say hello and buy me ale.
I was abruptly awakened from my daydreaming by Max. He whimpered and walked toward the front door. At first, I thought it was a half-mute or a transmute, but then I heard scratching at the door. We were all alarmed, but as we approached the door with our rifles poised, ready to release a barrage of lead, we could see no one through the windows of the doors. The scratch came again, and Max began barking. Abruptly something jumped up before us.
It was Otter; he was alive.
I let him in.
There were only two dogs Pepe would allow in the Ale House—one was Max, the other, Otter. Otter was a four-year-old chocolate lab and was owned by Rick Bush. I didn’t see Otter and Rick very often, but when I did we stopped for a moment to exchange pleasantries, usually about our dogs, and we let Max and Otter have a moment of playtime.
I searched the street but there was no sign of Rick.
Otter had somehow survived and had been able to elude the transmutes and the half-mutes. He was filthy, smelled slightly of urine, and was much underweight. I pulled out a can of organic chicken & beef from Max’s pack and fed him.
When Otter finished eating he padded over to Julie, rubbing his head against her leg, nudging her.
“Is he mean?” she nervously asked. “He looks like he wants to eat me.”
“Otter?! He’s a pussy,” I assured her. “Looks like you made a new friend.”
We had one more stop to make before we headed home, and that was to pick up supplies to restock our lounge. The armory had a bar called the Garryowen Club, used by both officers and enlisted men. It wasn’t sufficiently stocked for our long-term needs. Since Astor Wine & Liquors was four blocks from McSorley’s, I decided it was time to make a liquor run.
We had nearly finished loading up our alcohol supply when we heard gunfire coming from the north on Lafayette. It sounded like it was in the Astor Place area.
There was no hesitation in our action. We quickly jumped into our vehicles, leaving boxes of booze on the sidewalk. It took us less than a minute to reach Astor Place. We saw civilians gathered around the entrance of the Uptown 6 train. There were three of them. We came upon them so quickly that they were caught off guard. Only three of them were armed, and they quickly surrendered when they saw they were outnumbered and we had superior firepower.
“On your knees. Hands behind your heads,” David shouted from his gun turret, as Max and I leapt out of the Humvee’s passenger side; Kermit had been driving.
Sam popped up from the Strykers’ topside port with rifle at the ready, while Marisol locked onto them from within her vehicle. Kermit joined me and the three complied without a word.
There was a man tied to one of the trees in the plaza; he was Spanish-looking. There were also several dead half-mutes scattered around. Out of habit I approached the two that were lying on the ground to check their condition, but they had been mortally wounded. I quickly turned to the man who was tied up and cut him free. He fell to the ground. Besides the obvious beating, he was also ill, but not enough that his life was in immediate peril.
“Amigo. ¿Cuál es tu nombre?”
“Ryan. Ryan Duncan,” A painful reply came. “Why are you speaking Spanish to me?”
Before I could answer Sam shouted. Half-mutes were approaching from the west, nearing the entrance to K-Mart.
I ordered my team to stand down. I didn’t need them blasting the half-mutes only to attract more. The idiots with the assault rifles had caused enough noise to summon the creatures. I really wished I had my bolo machetes, but they were at my apartment.
I pulled out my knife. I could feel the adrenaline pumping me up. I was nervous but not frightened. There was no time to be scared. The first one was way ahead of the other.
They were strong, but not as strong as I was; after all, I was trained and fit, plus I had that extra transmute strength. I moved forward and met my adversary on the street. My instincts and training took over. The first one fell quickly. It was a simple sidestep and a forearm to the throat, which dropped him to the ground. I plunged the knife into his heart several times.
The other was smarter than his predecessor. He saw what I had done and stopped to rethink his plan of attack. We had not encountered such behavior before. They were thinking creatures, like the doctor had said. Not dead, just enraged.
It came at me like a linebacker after a quarterback. I could feel the adrenaline rush, which had started to give me a headache. He lunged, trying to tackle me, but I was quick to sidestep, and as he passed I sliced his shoulder with the blade. He was undeterred; cutting him had only enraged him more. He turned and came back at me, this time straight on, not low to the ground. He did not charge blindly. He tested me by charging forward a few feet, then retreating. He repeated the process two more times, but before he could m
ake a decision to commit to a full-on attack, I ran out of patience.
“Ah, fuck it,” I said aloud, knowing I needed to attend to my patient rather than play games with the freak. I pulled out my pistol and put a round into his chest. End of the problem.
Marisol shouted over the radio, “Incoming, incoming. From behind me!”
The creature lunged up at Sam, but the slat armor made it difficult for it to get to him, so it turned its attention to those it could see in front of the vehicle: Kermit and the prisoners. I raised my pistol and moved quickly toward them, but before I could get a shot off, Kermit plunged his knife deep into its throat as it came around the front of the Stryker. The abrupt collision between it and Kermit’s blade forced it to its knees. Blood spurted and splattered as the creature tried frantically to hold back the squirting crimson flow. It convulsed and grabbed at its neck, trying to dislodge the weapon.
With the butt end of his M4A1, Kermit struck the frenzied creature in the head, sending it crashing to the ground. On its back it thrashed about, still trying to pull the knife from its throat. Kermit came down heavy on the creature’s face with his right boot. The creature released the knife and grabbed onto Kermit’s leg, allowing Kermit to quickly extract the knife then finish the job by slitting its throat from ear to ear. It took only a moment for the creature to bleed out. Kermit never spoke a word; he just wiped the bloodied instrument on his victim, looked up at me for a split second, and resumed position.
Our prisoners were shaken. One pissed himself. My headache was becoming more intense, but I had to concentrate.
I checked Ryan’s condition. He was ill and should have been in bed resting. He was blistered, and the blisters were leaking a clear fluid––not the blisters of a human in transformation, but the painful condition of shingles.
“Amigo. Estara bien. Aún no hay huesos rotos, solamente—solamente… hinchazón y… magulladuras… No te preocupes. Tengo la medicina para las—las… am—ampollas.”
A painful reply came, “Why do you keep speaking to me in Spanish? I’m not Spanish.”
“Oh, sorry. You look Spanish. Though I guess that wouldn’t make sense, would it? If you were Spanish you probably wouldn’t be here.”
“Why is that?” he asked, grimacing.
“Because I don’t think too many Spanish are immune.”
He looked at me with confusion and puzzlement, wondering how I knew this. He wanted me to elaborate. “I don’t understand.”
“What’s your ancestry?”
“Sicilian and Scottish.”
“That’s why you didn’t turn into the living dead, you’re Scottish.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“We can talk about it later. I need to get you back to the hospital. You’ll be okay once we get you some medication.”
“Hospital? What’s wrong with me?” he asked, as I buttoned his shirt.
“Shingles,” I informed him, trying to ignore my swelling pain.
“What?”
“The second coming of chicken pox. Usually brought on by stress and a low immune system,” I informed him in a calm voice.
“NO!” came a resounding contradiction to my medical diagnosis from one of the captured. “He’s turning into one of those crazy mutants!”
“Shut your hole, before I plug it,” Kermit ordered, moving forward and pointing the rifle at the man’s head.
Carbine in hand I confronted the man. I was outraged at his total lack of humanity. “What would make you do this? Why would you tie this man to a tree?”
“I told you, he’s one of those crazies. Look at the sores!”
“Those crazies we call half-mutes, and he’s not stricken with that disease. He’s got shingles.”
“Chicken pox, my ass,” the other snidely commented. “He’s turning and we have the right to kill the son-of-a-bitch any way we want.”
I became livid. I pulled out my pistol and pressed it against his forehead. My headache was gaining in severity and my ears were beginning to ring.
“Listen Dumb, Dumber and…” I looked at the man who had wet himself. “Piss Pants. I don’t have time to argue with stupidity. The patient is coming with us.”
“What gives you the right?” Dumber defiantly responded.
“You see this rank?! You see this medical patch? You hear my commanding tone? That’s what gives me the right. Now get your asses up and run back to the shit hole you crawled out of, before I put one in you,” I warned.
“Sergeant Renquist isn’t going to like that,” Dumber responded.
“Is Renquist your leader? He military?”
“Yes,” Dumb said, as Piss Pants said, “No.”
“What is it? Or would you like my master sergeant to extract the information? Sergeant Brown,” I called.
“Yes, sir.”
“I need your extraction expertise.”
“Sir. Yes, sir,” Kermit said in a pleased tone, and with a wide grin on his face. He retrieved his knife from its sheath.
“He’s a prison guard,” Piss Pants quickly said.
“Don’t tell him anything,” another warned, but the man refused to listen to them.
“He told us he was a corrections officer at Rikers. But I think he was really an inmate. I’m not part of this. I was—”
“Shut up,” I ordered, slapping him. “Renquist is a Russian name, and the odds of a Russian being immune would be slim-to-none. So go tell that pretend sergeant of yours that if I ever see anyone doing what you’re doing again, we’ll shoot them on sight. Now get the hell outta here.”
Dumb demanded to know, “Who are you to dictate?”
I was tempted to remove my sunglasses, as I looked him straight in the eyes, but Sun Tzu once said, “The enlightened ruler is heedful, and the good general full of caution.” I heeded the Chinese general’s advice and kept them on.
I took my carbine and slapped Dumb upside the head with it. “Do you understand, now?”
“I do,” the urine-soaked man quickly spoke up, acknowledging my authority in hopes of not getting a gun butt to the head like his companion had received.
“Then go!” I ordered, hoping to end the confrontation before my head exploded.
“You can’t make us walk without weapons,” Dumb said. “There’s more of those crazies mutants out there, and it’ll be dark before we can get back.”
“You better hurry.”
Dumber asked, “What about our truck?”
“It’s not going anywhere; it’s got a flat,” I responded.
“Flat? Flat where?” Dumb replied, questioning my assessment of the vehicle’s condition.
“Sergeant. Please show these men exactly where the flat tires are located.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
Kermit pulled out his knife once again.
“Right here.” He plunged the knife into the front and deflated it. He then moved to the rear and did the same. “And right here.”
“See. Two flat tires. Sergeant, if these men have not vacated the area in thirty seconds they are to be considered hostile and are to be engaged with extreme prejudice. Is that clear?” I was having fun playing commander, even though it felt as if I were about to pass out.
“With pleasure, sir,” Kermit confirmed, grinning widely. He aimed his weapon at the three.
The three decided to run, and as they fled I collapsed to my knees. The pain was overwhelming and I was on the verge of another change, mostly likely a severe change.
“J.D., are you all right?” asked a concerned David coming to my aid, followed by Kermit.
“No,” was my anguished response. “I have one of those headaches, and my hands are on fire. Something is going to happen… Get Ryan out of here.” I was losing my train of thought. “Don’t touch his sores. And… and you need… you, you need to give him Famvir as an antiviral and Hydrocodone for pain. See the doc… and… and warm Epsom salt baths. I gotta go.”
I stumbled to the Humvee.
; “Take Max with you,” I told them, as I struggled to get into the vehicle. “And give Otter a bath.”
I closed the door and backed up, and then sped away, leaving everyone behind. Marisol had no idea what was going on until I had gone. As I rushed up Fourth Avenue heading toward Union Square I heard Marisol’s frantic, concerned calls over the radio, but I could not respond; I did not want to respond. I needed to get away from them and there was only one place I could go: home—home to sanctuary, home to comfort, home to safety.
I hung a right on 12th Street out of habit, not even thinking it didn’t matter if I went the opposite direction on 13th Street. As I turned left onto Third Avenue I swerved and lost control of the Humvee. I slammed into the front of a parked car, bounced over the curb, and passed over a metal bicycle parking rack, flattening it. I stopped just before crashing into the buildings. Bellows of steam poured out from under the vehicle’s hood. I damaged the radiator, which was very bad. The motor sputtered, clunked, and went dead. There was no point in trying to restart it. Around the corner was my home. I picked up my firearm and fell out of the driver’s seat as I opened the door.
I crawled a few feet before I was able to pull myself up with the help of the wrecked Humvee. I staggered and stumbled around the corner to my doorstep. I fumbled for my keys, which were in my pant leg pocket.
Old habits die hard. My house keys were a link to my previous life, one I couldn’t give up. My keys gave me comfort and the promise that I could, one day, at anytime, choose to go home. I was glad for my unwillingness to leave my keys at the armory, for if I was to force open the front door it might attract the unwelcome and provide less protection.
I stumbled into the hallway. Jimmy Pugliese lived on the first level. He was a musician who toured with Philip Glass, and when he wasn’t doing that, he taught music and played in his own jazz group. I could barely make it up the steps to the first floor. My fingers burned and a searing pain ran up my spine.
I lived on the third floor; Kolin Smith lived on the second. There were only three apartments in the building, and no ground level floor. The mortgage was expensive, but the rooms were large; after all, it was a whole floor I occupied. As a paramedic for St. Vincent’s I was paid well, but not well enough to afford to pay for a townhouse on my own. Before my parents moved to Arizona, they gave me a generous donation from the sale of their building as a down payment on my apartment. They also set up a trust fund as part of my inheritance, which I could modestly draw from on a monthly basis. This supplemented my income allowing me the lavish lifestyle of a spacious East Village apartment.